Intercourse with the vampire
by TheRealSnowWhite
Summary: Hi. My name is Eve. I live in New Orleans. I am a sex worker. I have a partner. And I am a vampire. I'm not much of one. I wear braces, have a hat with day-glo daisies and I date a were. But I seem to have caught your fancy.
1. Chapter 1

There are lots of important things you should know about me. I don't know how they rank in manner of importance: I'm English, the child of a lapsed Jew, my name is Eve, I have a boyfriend named Luke and I am also a vampire. Not a very old one mind. I'm only two years old – turned in my first year of college. Not the university one you have in America, but eh, sort of a separate extended state of high school.

I'm also a whore.

This isn't in the glib sense, but in the very real wetsex way.

I'm a ho darlings – didn't you notice the bling?

You wouldn't have suspected if you'd known me when I was alive. I was shy, painfully so, small with a hair that took on volcano like qualities (i.e. it has a terrible tendency to erupt into uncontrollable frizz) and masses of freckles. Every bullies dream, me. I was a naïve little thing, only having a few friends and I dated the same boy from about the age of thirteen. Peter. A lanky thing, with fluffy blonde hair like duck down. It stuck to his head like snowflakes. I really thought I loved him. He was my first of course. Life threateningly prosaic, but I didn't want anything else at the time. I was at the age where you can do questionable things and still think its true love.

It wasn't to be. Peter couldn't accept my Turning. It wasn't even my fault. It's a horrible thing really. I remember that evening so well. I was running to an evening art class and was panicking because I was late. I'd just eaten a terrible beef stew and it was sitting uncomfortably in my stomach. I'd had a rushed shower and the tips of my hair were still damp. I was fussing with my scarf when out of nowhere a large white hand grabbed my neck and pulled me into the darkness with it. I gave a little scream and my meaningless little life popped out of existence.

Nothing was ever the same. My mother kicked me out. After spending so many years as a lapsed Jew she suddenly found her faith again and said I was unholy. That and I accidentally attempted an attack on my little brother. I almost killed him. He deserved it. Peter dumped me. I was far too interesting for him now. Not the easily pleased little girl I was before. When you're a vampire everything sexual is exciting. Especially the biting. Oh boy. Now that was an unexpected problem. Peter decided he thought it was wrong and I found that I am the only vampire who can't properly feed.

My teeth are evil. They hate me and want me to die. They have the texture of chalk and enjoy playing musical chairs in my gums. I've had braces since the age of fourteen. Since they are designed to move your teeth into a correct position, the wires don't appreciate it when my fangs attempt to come out. It is exceedingly painful. The only way I can equate it to anything is that it feels like wrenching your teeth out from the root with very small and precise pliers. And until my teeth are a-okay I have to live with this little issue, but when I get in the fangy way I can't always stop it. It freaked Peter the fuck out.

Luke doesn't care in the slightest. He's not a freaky little fangbanger he grows fangs of his own sometimes and understands what it's like. His fangs only come a few nights a month though.

Yes. I am a vampire who is dating a werewolf.

I know I'm not supposed to. Everyone tells me it's a perversion but I love him. He understands what it's like to be different and yet so similar to humans. He looked after me when I needed him. Sometimes he looks at me and it's like he sees straight through me, past all the make-up, the dresses, all the shit that I do, and can still see the humanity inside me.

His eyes crinkle when he smiles. And the sex is way better than it ever was with Peter. Not that I would date anyone purely based on that, I hasten to add. Luke doesn't mind the fangs. Sometimes he reciprocates like with like.

He doesn't even say anything about the whoring. It should bother him more, my conscience says. I know it affects him but if he complains about it he never brings it up with me. When my work phone rings, or the manager calls, he just ignores it. Grits his teeth and accepts that I work as a call girl.

There's a small group of us, here in New Orleans. (If you're wondering about the jump from the English countryside to the American south, from school girl to prostitute… well, it's a long story to say the least. Just go with the flow until I reach a point in this tale to divulge the story.) The vampire sex workers. There aren't a lot of us, I would guess that most think our work is degrading and find consenting humans a lot of a turn off. We're a little sister-and-brother-hood. We meet once a month for drinks and to exchange tales. There's no-one else I could possibly talk to. It would be disgusting to talk about work to Luke – I doubt he'd want to hear it. So I sip the Royalty, smile a brittle little smile at the rest of the group, laugh about the silly little humans who need my services.

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**I cannot be the only person to have notice the glut of Eric/Sookie stories can I? As much as I love it, let's have a little break, with some OCs reacting with our beloved canon characters. This is Eve and she's a little vamp with a filthy mouth who'll be meeting up with our canon characters soon enough. Time line is a little bit before _Dead Until Dark_, so way back when. Enjoy the ride...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the response I've had! I didn't think anyone would respond to story that didn't have Eric and Sookie in it. So thanks for having a go at an OC tale! Although I have to admit that Eric will be making an appearance. I haven't caved to anything, twas always the plan. There's no love between Eve and Eric don't worry. Eve is a one were woman.**

**When she is blindfolded, the tense will change. It is entirely intentional. It's supposed to make you feel as if the action is happening to you. Or something like that.  
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I mainly do degradation. The idea of being able to over power something so old, so terrible, so powerful as a vampire is very appealing to some people. And so they pay, pay through the nose for the slightest chance to see me in pain, in chains, beaten black and blue, crying for their mercy. All an act of course. I'm not so stupid to leave myself completely defenceless. Pewter can be mistaken for silver, restraints can be broken. For most the fantasy is enough to look through the obvious lies.

I doubt Zivah would have chosen this career for me if I hadn't looked so convincing. I don't look like a natural vampire. I'm not lucky enough to have skin that went naturally pale. I come from farming stock. I am possessed of robust and rude health and ruddy skin. After half a glass of blood, I look even more alive. Not many can see me for what I truly am. This plays into quite a few fantasies of the clients I have. Oh no, they've seduced some young girl and but wait she's really a vampire. I'll have to control her!

Some people are so stupid.

The contempt shows. I never get interested in the sex. It isn't interesting, a bit repetitive and I almost never get in the fangy way. Which is frankly a relief on my braces. I wouldn't be able to put up with that three times a night, five days a week. Nightmare innit?

Anyway, I have one client (Mister Warty Back, business man, very smug about himself, has no reason to be.) who decided that he'd like to take it a bit further. This'd be going back now – ooo two years? I was still a relative new girl, but I'd built up a good client book with the help of my manager and the rest of the whores of Louisiana. I had good savings too – the manager took fifty percent of the cut from a job she sent me on, true, but of my actual earnings only ten percent went back to Zivah at home. I squirreled away another ten percent in a hidden back account. The remaining amount was more than enough for me and Luke to survive upon, and pay for the extras that were requirements for my job; cocktail evenings, clothes, equipment and a new worrying habit for shoes. I have never been frivolous with money. The new urges to spend on shoes worried me sick! What happened to my closet space?! (That's the price for maturity and sexual freedom my ducks – less closet space.) But I had a weekly quota and I never went under it. I was a conscientious little whore. Still am really.

"My little English Rose, wear something sweet. We're going to somewhere unexpected."

Intriguing in a weird sort of way. For work I rock the vintage look in bright colours and florals, so I sling on a Charlotte Charles style floral number in rose pink and head out at first dark. (Think of me as Holly Golightly and Grace Kelly mixed together darlings. It's all elegance and style with grace and femininity. And gloves of course. None of this red and leather nonsense. It'd clash with my colourings. And I'd look like some sort of erotic midget.)

WB is with a few friends. They smell like alcohol, it rolls off them in waves and hits my nostrils. I hate it when the clients are drunk. It makes them unpredictable. WB smirks, his jowls aquiver, swipes at my breasts. He blindfolds me, sits me in the front passenger seat. It's a five hour journey, and one of them sticks his hands down the front of my dress and tweaks my nipples. The. Whole. Damn. Time. Not cool.

The car door is opened. I have no idea where we are, except that it smells like an urban area with the slightest hint of the countryside brought in on the wind. It's intoxicating. Two of the men hold both of my arms, gently guiding me through the darkness. They murmur around me. I hear a woman's voice, but I can't quite catch the words. I remember cocking my head slightly, like a bird, when they push me through what I presume is a door.

All around me is sound. I am awash in an ocean of noise, of chatter, of half spoken desires, of ill gotten fantasies. I smell alcohol. I can vaguely smell blood. The scent is both exhilarating and frightening; I can feel the adrenaline start to surge within my own blood and the buds of my fangs start to buzz with excitement. Childishly I stick my hands out in front of me, like a game of blind man's bluff. The fingertips gently brush up against something warm. Hands grip mine. I'm led away.

We sit somewhere for what I can guess is about forty minutes. How long were they planning on making tonight? WB is a very tightly scheduled man. He normally takes an hour tops. This was miles away from the usual fare. I hoped he would pay extra. He'd handed me the usual cut when we'd met (Here's a tip from Aunty Eve: always take the money up front otherwise the john may not give you the money or put it in a toaster or burn it in front of you.) but for an all nighter I'd have to charge extra. And phone Luke so he wouldn't worry.

A hand hovers round my waist. He breathes whisky breath into my ear. "Come with me, little English rose." Ahh. WB, the unsubtle. He attempts to pick me up, fails because he's had a lot more than I'd suspected. He grips me round the wrist, more tightly than I'd like. I'm still blindfolded. I question him about it. He says nothing. We're in another room. The music is muted. The air is stagnant. Perhaps I'm standing in a corridor or a toilet.

"Where are you?" He's let go of me by now. I smile, giggle like this is such a big game we're playing and this isn't starting to freak me out. I shouldn't have got into this. My hand brushes his cheek. Something isn't right. I can feel it.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. There is nothing but pain. He's pressing silver into my forehead, it's hissing away, eating into my flesh, burning away at my skin. I can feel something dripping down my face. WB is gasping – he's actually getting off on this! The indignity of it all… I'd be more worried about the _exact_ nature of whatever is now on my face if I wasn't distracted by the sound I can hear. Someone is screaming loudly, hysterically, the noise going round and round in my head. The noise is chilling, the sound if a young girl in pain. It's me. I'm screaming. I don't remember what happens next.

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**You know the drill - review, review, review! If you don't like, tell me. If you love, tell me. Eve can't adapt without comments. **

**The Charlotte Charles comments, of course, refer to the brilliant series _Pushing Daisies_. I imagine Eve as looking like Anna Friel, if slightly more semetic looking. **


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